


Egomania

by Sanguis



Series: Original Work [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Cardinal Sins, M/M, Murder, Ritual Murder, Slash, Twincest, Vanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguis/pseuds/Sanguis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, when they were thirteen, they cut their palms to watch them bleed, and drink it from each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Incorrect Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on fictionpress, under the pseudonym Sanguineus

Tales of theft and adultery,

Tales of devilment and witchery

Bacchante - Theatre of Tragedy

It’s early autumn when Helle decides they ought to open the mansion for guests again. He’s bored, he says, as if Pierrot hasn’t been painfully aware of that hollow feeling at the back of their minds, waiting to be filled with little games.

“Why not wait for Christmas?” It’s not that Pierrot is opposed to the idea of guests, but he was hoping to finish the entire fairy tale section of their library and that won’t happen until the end of November. “There’ll be more people then.”

Helle seems to think it over, curling a stray lock of ginger hair around his index finger. “That would be great, but there’s that ubiquitous feeling of contentment and goodwill around that time…”

Pierrot grimaces. They’ll have to close off the house again quickly, lest the benevolence seep into the wood. It would probably hang around till late Spring and that’s simply dreadful.

The mansion slips out of the mist somewhere near the end of the first week of October. The leaves aren’t quite so orange yet, but that’s fine. Pierrot likes to experience the change in the trees, the chill setting in the air and in their bones. Autumn is the best season, though unfortunately close to the yuletide. As always, the sky is partially clouded, but Helle says it won’t rain, which is a pity.

Helle leaves to play the role of Lord, but since Pierrot opines that only one of them should stomach the other Lordlings and the pesky peasants at a time, he’s happy to stay at home and play the role of mistress. It gives him more time to read, in any case.

He tends to their roses once he’s finished reading the Grimm fairy tales. _It’s a wonder they aren’t dead_ , Helle tells him. Pierrot scoffs but otherwise ignores his brother. Helle is ridiculous when it comes to their roses, pretty things that they are. Pierrot likes the feeling of the earth between his toes, delights in how the thorns prick his dainty fingers and make him bleed.

They need to hire someone to take care of some chores while they pretend to be proper Lords and such. Pierrot quickly finds someone, though he doesn’t really bother remembering her name unless she happens to be in the same room as he. She’s a quiet thing, pretty and somewhere in her late thirties. She can cook, which is all he really needs to know about her, and, more importantly, she doesn’t ask about the mansion being completely clean without so much as one maid present. Just for that, Pierrot deigns to smile at her on occasion.

In the time that Helle spends away, Pierrot retreats into his wing of the mansion. On a whim, he refurbishes everything to shades of several pastel colours, though he leaves the dark brown panels for what they are. It’s the dark greens and red and blues he has the most problems with. At least he needn’t change the furniture completely, though he does sell a few because they’re an eyesore. Remembering that people tend to eat regularly, he sometimes ventures near the kitchen to eat whatever meal the woman – _Sandrine_ – has prepared at that specific time.

He ventures out once, for a new wardrobe. They need new shirts, and some new waistcoats wouldn’t hurt either. The tailor confuses him for his brother, which is something Pierrot is always infinitely pleased with, and a few old ladies on the streets call him _demon_ under their breaths. Adding in the heavy rainfall, that day turns out to be the most marvellous.

Ellington is a small, prosperous town, grown from a village that had the sole purpose of providing for the Synnett line. The Synnetts in turn would protect them from outside dangers. Industrial and modern eras changed some, but not all, of the rules, of course. The Synnetts owned the largest textile factory in the area, which is where most of the people find employment.

It takes only a week for the townspeople to be completely convinced that Helle and Pierrot have always been there, neatly interwoven with their own lives. They are merely the newest in a long line of successors of the Marquis Synnett of Ellington title, though most of that title is pushed unto Helle, since he’s the eldest. Pierrot will take his place on occasion, but he has less of the patience needed to deal with official affairs. If he acts the part of Marquis, it’s to organise events.

Helle returns early on the Monday morning at the start of the next week. Pierrot only knows this because he wakes up feeling complete; less like his skin has stretched out. He only sees his brother later in the afternoon, when he finally abandons his room through the window, using each balcony as steps until he reaches the patio at the ground floor. The door is wide open and the curtains billow magnificently in the wind, almost as if they were reaching to wrap him in their softness. The marble is icy beneath his bare feet so the soft carpet of the drawing room is a welcome change.

Helle stands in front of the hearth, studying a monstrosity that Pierrot abruptly realises is supposed to be a religious tapestry. “Burn it.”

“That would be disrespectful towards the kind Father.” Despite the amused tone of his voice, Pierrot knows the image of saints and halos unsettles Helle. The words Spes, Caritas, Fidas, dance before their eyes, making Pierrot want to scrub his skin clean. That may just be Helle, though, considering he’s the one _holding_ the thing.

“Nevertheless, it’s an eyesore.” Pierrot pulls it from Helle and throws it into the hearth. “You’re not hanging that in my house.”

Helle turns to him with a smirk. “Oh, your house, now is it?” He lets Pierrot pull him to the couch, leans back and lets Pierrot straddle his hips. He cups Pierrot’s arse, pulling him closer so that their cocks rub against each other through the fabric of their trousers, making them both moan. Pierrot leans down to kiss Helle, holding him down by his throat. A hand slips down the back of Pierrot’s trousers to squeeze his arse before cupping it again, and Pierrot bucks impatiently against his brother.

He’s pushed back as Helle sits up, reluctantly putting an end to their kiss. “We can’t have the cook catch us just yet, can we? We’ve only just begun this season.”

Pierrot pouts, but he lets Helle slip away nonetheless. “I want a masquerade.” Helle arches an eyebrow.

“People don’t do masquerades anymore, sweetling.”

Pierrot frowns. “A pity. I still want one.” Helle flicks him on the nose.

“Leave it to you to start the season dramatically.” He says woefully. “You ought to be talking to our new cook about this masquerade.”

With one last, quick kiss, Helle leaves in the direction of the main study. _Bastard_ , Pierrot thinks, which only serves to make Helle laugh.

He’s not in the right mind-set to go find Sandrine, much less talk to her. For one, he’s much too excited by Helle’s touch after a week of not being in close proximity to each other, and he still needs to plan out the finer details of the masquerade.

Pierrot goes to the library and takes the thickest fairy tale book he finds first – Hans Christian Andersen. Mother used to read that to them. Satisfied, he retreats to his room.

 

*

 

Sundays were, as if following a cosmic rule, the sunniest (and therefore vilest) day of the week in Ellington. Inevitably, it occurred to their nana that they ought to go out and enjoy the sun. “Come boys.” She said. “It’s a beautiful day.”

It was awful and dry, and their skins turned pink within the hour. Their nana didn’t notice, naturally, since her nose was permanently stuck in one of those books she always liked reading; the ones with ladies in pretty dresses. Mother called them ‘magazines’.

Cierra sat down upon the ground and glared at her. Cyril put his hand on Cierra’s head, letting it slip down slowly until he reached the ribbon holding Cierra’s hair back and loosened it. The wind picked up a little, pushing Cierra’s curls into his face, but he didn’t mind; it felt wonderful.

When their nana looked up, Cyril was gone, but Cierra still sat upon the grass. She closed her magazine and stood up quickly. “Where’s your brother, child?”

Cierra shrugged, smiling. Cyril must’ve gone to explore; he liked to disappear only to return and tell tales of the wondrous things he had seen. Cierra stayed behind because someone ought to; Cyril would take him to those wonderful places later.

Their nana called for Cyril, but his brother did not return. Cierra was certain that he was fine and likely to return when he grew tired of the sun, but nobody listened. Their nana ushered him inside, leaving him under the care of one of the maids until their mother came to retrieve him.

“Oh darling, what happened to your skin?” she asked. “And where’s Cyril?”

“Miss Joanna is looking for him, milady.” The maid answered.

“She’s lost my son?” Her fingers dug painfully into Cierra’s curls. The maid winced, but had little else to offer.

“Cyril is fine, mummy.” Cierra said. “But he’ll be burnt from the sun.”

She looked at him and his wide green eyes, but instead of calming, her ire flared up. “She took you outside? In this dreadful weather?” Her hair seemed almost lit, like fire.

Secretly, Cierra was pleased. When their nana returned, without Cyril, their mother was in such a state that the entire house could probably hear her and their ears would ring for hours. Cyril slipped in not long after, looking as ill and burnt as Cierra felt. He’d been in the forest a few yards away from the mansion, not that it had helped against the awful sun. “At least the forest was quiet.” He whispered to Cierra.

When their mother’s temper subsided, she hugged them both close and kissed them upon the brow. “I’m so sorry, my sweetlings.” She said. “Oh, just look at you.”

That night, both boys fell ill.

 

*

 

Helle brings along a guest on Friday afternoon, after he’d disappeared to Abyn’s Gentlemen’s Club. Since Pierrot is still on a mission to finish all the fairy tales they have in their possession, he’d stayed behind. Sandrine doesn’t work on Fridays and Sundays, which is a pity because Pierrot had started to get an idea of what he wanted for the masquerade.

If he is to be honest, Helle has been incredibly patient, waiting until Friday to bring someone along. Pierrot decides not to participate just to spite him, because they could as well have used the day for a good, long, fuck. They ought have spent the morning in bed, naked, wayward limbs twining under the sheets.

_Hush, darling._

Pierrot stays in his wing, locking himself in his room. He has a book, a thick, heavy book resting on his crossed legs. He turns to the first page and inhales the book’s scent – old paper, old ink and, _mother_. With a beatific smile, he opens the book at an arbitrary page and finds The Old Church Bell. It’s strange how he remembers all of these tales, yet can say nothing of them.

The low thrum of voices break his concentration halfway through Holger Danske, though it takes him a minute to realise that there are people in his wing. Helle is near and he’s probably brought the _guest_ along. They pass by his room, their voices low and steady, going in the direction of –

_No._

Helle hums at him. _You’ve nothing to worry about, love_.

Irritated, Pierrot pushes the book away and climbs out of the window. This time he merely has to go sideways, because he just _knows_ Helle would dare. He slips through the window of his private study, careful not to step on any of his two hundred and seventy-seven porcelain dolls, and intercepts his brother before he gets to close the study.

As much as he loves his brother, Pierrot would like to _hurl_ something at his beautiful, smiling face. “I was reading.”

“You didn’t tell me you had such a pretty sister.” The stranger says. From the glance he spares the man, Pierrot sees that he is brown-haired and pale, with hazel eyes. Nothing worthy of interest, though he certainly must think himself quite a lot, if Helle is wasting precious time on him.

“We’re twins.” Helle says.

“And I was reading, so it would be much appreciated if you would take this elsewhere.”

Helle’s smile turns into a sly smirk and he tugs his guest away by the arm. Pierrot’s eyes narrow, gluing themselves to that gesture, that point of contact. _You have some nerve_.

_Ta, darling._

Pierrot stomps back to his room but he’s too riled up to continue reading. Down below, on the ground floor, the mansion is reshaping itself, experiencing a beautiful metamorphosis, but this time Pierrot doesn’t find any thrill in it. His mind is too focused on _the gesture_ , on Helle’s hand on the hapless stranger, long fingers curling around some plebeian’s arm.

He falls unto the bed, counting to two hundred and seventy-seven, picturing each of the dolls in his study. They’re not things to be put on display; they’re his collection set up in his _private_ study. What if the peasant had touched them with his greasy fingers, defiling them forever?

 _You ought to go to the boudoir, with that attitude_.

He sticks out his tongue, just for the sake of doing it. There’s no one to tell he oughtn’t do it, seeing as all of them are dead and Helle wouldn’t dare. He doesn’t need to be a proper Lordling in his own room.

He falls asleep thinking of dresses and screams, and wakes when the bed dips under Helle’s weight. In his sleep, Pierrot had turned on his stomach, but when he turns his head, he can see Helle. He’s fresh out of the bath, which is a shame and absolutely delightful at the same time. His hair is damp, hanging loosely around his face, and he’s wearing one of his shirts from the regency period, buttoned down. Pierrot turns away.

“You’re being awfully obstinate today, love.” Helle says softly. He places a warm hand on Pierrot’s lower back, and Pierrot should _loathe_ him, but it’s a bit difficult. Helle pushes his shirt up and blows on the exposed skin before kissing it and dipping his tongue into the hollow of Pierrot’s back. Pierrot bites his tongue not to moan, but a strangled noise makes its way from his lips.

Helle nudges him to turn over on his back, trails kisses on his exposed belly. He lays one tender kiss on Pierrot’s hipbone before he goes lower and lower, pulling lightly at the elastic band of Pierrot’s trousers to reveal ginger curls, but when Pierrot reaches to caress Helle’s hair, intent on keeping his mouth _just there_ where his cock is already half hard, Helle pulls away.

This newfound interest of his in abstinence is frankly appalling.

“Oh, of course, _I’m_ the one being obstinate.” Pierrot says tartly. “The _cook_ has the day off.”

“So eager, aren’t you?”

“And you’re a git, darling.”

Helle hums, sending shivers down Pierrot’s spine. He takes something from his trouser pocket and places it against Pierrot’s belly; it’s small, smooth and cold in some places, in others Pierrot feels lace and frills pricking his skin. He grabs the doll by its wig, holding it up for a better view.

“You made him prettier.” Delicate and detailed, the doll almost looks real, despite its miniature stature. The hair is soft and deep brown; the cheeks are rosy and the lips pink. Its clothes are well tailored, Victorian and in hues of green to complement the hazel eyes. “Did you fuck him too?”

It’s cruel, but it has the desired effect – Helle pulls Pierrot to him by the hair, bringing their lips together so that their teeth clash before they find the right angle. Helle tastes as he always does; of smoke and sweeter things, like blood and cinnamon. His come taste just the same, perhaps with a bit more salt.

“Never.” He breathes against Pierrot’s lips once they part. Pierrot kisses him again, tugging at his shirt, but Helle pulls back, turning away, and _demons below_ , what does he hope to accomplish with this denial?

“You ought to be planning a masquerade, if I’m not mistaken.”

Pierrot nearly digs his nails in Helle’s arm, hoping they grow sharp and thin, and that the wounds fester horridly. Helle’s skin is just too perfect to deserve such mistreatment.

“You ought to give me a date.”

Helle stops at the door. “Why not hunt all throughout Hallowmas?” he says, smiling. “Start with a feast, end with a masquerade.”

On Sunday, as soon as Sandrine sets her dainty foot into the mansion, Pierrot takes her by the arm and gives her a detailed account of what he intends to do. It has to be big, beautiful and precise, the meals have to be succulent and so sinful they’ll lead the most saintly of priests astray. They’ll hire people to help her of course, the poor thing can’t hope to accomplish something of such astronomic proportions all on her own.

Pierrot sends some boy to restock the pantry with everything they need to pull off the banquet and another to buy the decorations he needs. Of course, the mansion already looks like a small palace, but it needs more of the splendour. He revisits the tailor for six new outfits, three for him and three for Helle. He has too much fun teasing the man and changes the design seven times before he settles for the final sketch.

A couple of the older folk cross themselves as he cruises through the streets of Ellington; one particular man even says, “The devils are at it again.” Pierrot gives him a brilliant smile; he later hears the man dies from a heart attack.

Sandrine gets three other maids to help her and frequently asks Pierrot to taste the dishes. They need to be perfection, and by the end of the week she’s nearly there.

“How many people should we expect, milord?”

Pierrot sits on the kitchen island, forgoing all rules of propriety ever taught to him. His feet swing as he licks chocolate mousse from a spoon, thinking of Helle.

“You’ll have to ask my brother.” He says. “He’s hand-picking our guests.”

 

*

 

Once, when they were thirteen, they cut their palms to watch them bleed, and drink it from each other. When they’d had their fill, licking it from each other’s fingers and forearms, they’d held hands and laid naked on Cyril’s bed. Their cocks were hard, mere inches away from each other, but they didn’t dare move. They needed to lie there for an hour for their fates to be sealed but within half an hour, their nana found them and pulled them from each other, screaming about witchcraft and the devil’s work.

Cierra cried. They were thrown into the baths, separately, clothed, hands bandaged, and dragged off to church. It was a Sunday and they had never been to church before. All through the mass, with their nana separating them from each other, Cierra wept; he wept so miserably that everyone around them was uncomfortable.

Miss Joanna had the Father throw holy water on them and Cierra wept even harder. Cyril stood still as his skin burnt, only crying out when they were forced to return home, exposed to holy water and Sunday’s blistering sun and stay in separate rooms. He struggled, fought, called for his brother but none would have mercy.

“It is unnatural.” Miss Joanna said crossly. “You shame your ancestors.”

Lady Mireille returned to silence and grim faces; missing the sound of her sons’ laughter, of Cyril playing the piano and Cierra singing, she asked if her boys were still sleeping.

Miss Joanna dutifully told her of the atrocious affair of the morning and proudly recounted the trip to the town church. “They’ve been punished for their sins, the good Lord be with them.”

Lady Mireille held a hand to her heart. “You interrupted them?” She said, voice pitching. “You took them to _church_ on a _Sunday?”_

She had only left them for a few hours, she thought. She had left them so that they could have their moments of privacy, when she traditionally used to take them out to the park, to picnic under the protective shade of a tree. This Sunday, she had left them to their own devices – _condemned them_ , more like.

Still clutching her heart, she rushed to Cierra’s room first. She found him on the ground, parts of his perfect white skin burnt. “Mama,” he said, eyes filled with tears. She took him in her arms, whispering “Oh, Sky, my sweet child.”

They found Cyril much more composed, though his eyes were red and his clothes torn. His room was in an equally abysmal state; priceless vases were broken, his pillows were a ruined heap upon his broken bed. She had them change and tucked them both into Cierra’s bed before releasing her temper upon her servants.

 

*

 

Within two days, the upcoming Hallowmas celebration at Synnett Mansion is the only thing spoken of in town. It’s not strictly an elitist party but only certain people receive invitations (hand-written, made of red perfumed paper and tied with a golden ribbon).

“We need more diversity.” Pierrot says on the third day after they’ve sent the first invitations. He’s on Helle’s lap, feeding him red grapes. “We may not be able to have all of them, but it would be a sad thing if none would remain to tell of our grandiose feast.”

“It wouldn’t do us much good if the peasants remember all of our parties.” Says Helle. When he’s not eating the grapes or squeezing Pierrot’s arse, he’s writing invitations. Pierrot would do it if he weren’t so busy with other important things. He’s sure that one of Sandrine’s lovely little helpers is lurking somewhere nearby, but Helle has yet to say anything.

“Who doesn’t want old ladies calling them demons on the street?” Pierrot says, grinning. “It’s absolutely delightful.” Helle looks up from his writing to bite into the last grape; it bursts and its juice trickles down his chin. Pierrot licks at it and kisses his brother briefly. “It’s no party if we don’t debauch saints.”

“Isn’t that the whole reason behind feasting during Hallowmas?” Helle pulls him in for another kiss, not expecting him to push him back, smirking and grinding against him once. Pierrot can tell how hard it is for Helle to hold back that moan. “The Father, then?” Helle asks, after a deep breath.

“Nuns too, if you can find any.”

He stands up and leaves for the kitchen. It’s rapidly becoming his second favourite place, replacing the private study with its precious treasures. The kitchen smells like all of life’s delights; the herbs and spices fill the air and he wants to bathe in them. _Lure them in with a feast,_ he thinks, _and make a feast of their flesh._

Sandrine sometimes tells him a bit about herself. She has a recently widowed mother who is very concerned about everything her children do or don’t. Sandrine thinks it’s nice, but unnecessary. She has her own daughter, whom she hopes to send to a good college in two years.

She tells him about the others too: Sarah lives with her boyfriend and their little son, but there have been many arguments lately. Lucille is hoping to graduate from community college next summer and move to one of the big cities to try her luck. Then there’s little Evangeline, the youngest, more devout than all of them combined and hoping to become a nurse at St. Peter’s Hospital.

He likes to hear them talk while they work; they’re thoroughly human, with vain concerns and ambitions. They talk about their favourite foods; Sandrine adores those American things called brownies, while Sarah only likes French cuisine, which causes arguments between her and Lucille, who prefers Italian. Evangeline has no favourites, for which the others seem to pity her.

On their third day of work, Evangeline had accused Lucille of being a painted whore. Pierrot’s eyebrows had nearly managed to hide behind the fringe of curls falling on his forehead.

“Better a painted whore than such a piously frigid twat.” Lucille had spit back. Pierrot had decided he likes her best. Since that incident, Sandrine makes sure to keep the two working on separate things. Lucille and Sarah get along just splendidly; Pierrot even sees them leave the mansion together every Saturday.

Evangeline looks at him oddly, now. Pierrot smiles with as many teeth he can manage, knowing it makes him look silly and a bit like the Cheshire cat. Helle despises that smile; his favourite is Pierrot’s coy, almost innocent smile. She looks away quickly, almost nervously, but he knows what she’s seen.

He steals one of the strudels and goes to the ballroom. Of all the rooms that are to be used for Hallowmas, it has proven to be the most difficult to decorate. He needs to be more distracted to come up with something magnificent, but Helle refuses to fuck him so he’s taken one of the chaises longues (the prettiest and most decorated one he could find) and spends most of his time reading. It’s just off the dining room, and the dining room is just off the kitchen, so he keeps all the doors open so that he can smell all of the sweetness from the kitchen. He reads The Elfin Hill twice, and wonders if he can get away with discretely placing children’s fingers in the banquet, but decides that it’ll be too much work. While he reads The Snow Queen, thinking of glass shards and what he could with them, the chandelier above him transforms into a most beautiful combination of gold and pearls, in the form of a very elaborate teardrop. He hears someone gasp, but he doesn’t bother to see whom was spying on him.

Helle only comes to see him once. It’s a welcome interruption, not that that sentiment stops Pierrot from behaving as churlishly as he can. Sexual frustration tends to bring the worst out of him. “I’m reading, love.” He begins when Helle kneels next to the chaise and plays with his hair.

“I know, sweetling. You’re scaring the staff.”

“Good.”

Helle plays with the band of Pierrot’s trousers, teasing them down just so. Pierrot pretends he doesn’t notice, though his prick certainly disagrees. Helle pushes up his shirt, carefully tracing spirals from Pierrot’s stomach up to his chest, until Pierrot dumps his books on Helle’s hand.

“That’s foul.” He says, even as he smirks. “It’s a heavy book.”

“What’s foul is your teasing.” Pierrot tells him. “Hasn’t daddy taught you never to start things you don’t intend to finish?”

“Mummy taught me to play the long game.”

Pierrot scowls, even as he remembers that particular lesson. There had been tears, most of which, he notes with pleasure, had been Helle’s. “Oughtn’t you be off doing some important things? I know _I’ve_ got a party to plan.”

Helle leaves, which is disappointing because Pierrot wanted to banter. It requires less focus. He reads The Little Mermaid just for the sake of old memories and is halfway through The Wicked Prince when Sandrine interrupts him with news of supper. They’re having curried pheasant as the main dish, with a bowl of rice on the side; Pierrot’s been waiting the entire day to sink his teeth into the pheasant.

Helle is already there, sitting at the head of the table. It’s only a portion of what used to be a long, hand-carved wooden dining table; they’d had it shortened because it feels silly to sit such a huge distance apart.

“Aren’t we missing a girl?” Pierrot asks. He’s certain there’d been three aside from Sandrine, but then, they all tended to look about the same.

“Evangeline asked to go to evening church, milord.” Sandrine says. “I didn’t see why she couldn’t go. I don’t need the help until tomorrow morning.”

“Ah.” The Father will invite himself at this rate, but he supposes they’ll send the invitation nonetheless. It’s only polite. Pierrot decides to write that one himself, and kiss it while he’s at it.

The pheasant is marvellous, so Pierrot regales Sandrine with compliments until even the tips of her ears are pink. He kisses her hands and calls them blessings, and tells her loyal helpers that they are truly angelic. The word almost twists his tongue, but it’s worth it for the sour look on Helle’s face.

The kitchen is eerily quiet on the 30th and Pierrot retreats to his room. At least the fast will make the feast seem even more spectacular to their guests, which is the only reason why he condones it. He doesn’t see Helle either, but he’s starting to count that as less of a loss than the rich smells of the kitchen.

 _Should I be offended, I wonder,_ Helle says drily. Pierrot has a vague impression of Helle lying on his bed, with his dress shirt unbuttoned, and shrugs.

He spends most of the 31st in the boudoir adjacent to his bedroom, mostly because that’s where all of his clothes are. Some of Helle’s are there too, but then it’s hard to distinguish their clothes when they can and will always wear much of the same. Helle tends to prefer darker colours around their hunting season.

Pierrot’s not sure what he ought to wear, even though he tormented the tailor for hours with his demands, but he hadn’t had a clear picture of the decorations when he was thinking of clothes. The tailor’s been invited, of course, and he’ll live to tell the tale, so his clothes escape with minimal changes.

They’ve got a pretty boy named Jason to receive their guests and lead them to the dining room. Helle had made sure to extend the table. From his spot on the balustrade, neatly hidden behind a pillar, Pierrot spies on Jason. With the way the guests are dressed, no one would know that they had just come from church, but Pierrot can smell the stench of it as it clings to them.

Most are wearing a columbina mask, which is much like the old tradition. Their local church banned Trick-or-Treating some years ago, not that it made any difference; only a handful of people had followed the American tradition and it died quickly enough. He sees one volto mask and briefly wonders how that particular person is going to eat, but that’s a trivial concern at best. His eyes trail back to Jason; he’s wearing a thin thing that barely passes for a mask, but it’s cute.

_Are you ogling his arse, darling?_

Pierrot giggles as Helle wraps an arm around his waist and pecks him on the cheek. “It’s not as magnificently well-shaped as ours, but a treat nonetheless.”

They wait until all of the guests have arrived to descend, holding hands. As they enter the dining room, Pierrot sees Father Jeremy clutch his heart. Unfortunately, Helle and he have to sit across from each other, so further indecencies are out of the question for tonight.

As the Vol-au-vent is served, Lady Trent, who is sitting on Pierrot’s right, says, “I’ve never been to a multicourse dinner before. It’s so exciting!”

Pierrot smiles charmingly. “Well, I do hope you like it, milady; our lovely Sandrine and her angelic helpers laboured for hours to prepare our meal.” He winks at Sandrine as she passes by. Before the main course is served, he’s got all of the ladies closest to him wrapped around his pinky. He shudders at the thought of having to dance with them on All Soul’s Day.

“I noticed neither of you attended the Vigil of All Hallows.” Father Jeremy says during the main course. Pierrot dips his roasted chicken in the exquisite chocolate sauce and waits for Helle to come up with a clever answer.

“Oh, do forgive our absence, Father.” Helle drawls. “My brother and I are hard-pressed to enter churches; our Mother died in one.” Most of the ladies gasp and Pierrot can almost taste the words of pity ready to be released from their lips. He remembers the day clearly; it had been their fifteenth birthday.

“We use the chapel in the right wing, the one adjacent to the solarium.” Pierrot adds after a sip of wine. There’s no chapel, of course; Mother had burnt it down during her pregnancy, claiming her belly had accidentally knocked over a candle. Father had never bothered rebuilding it, but once Edison and Swan had made electric power accessible, father took a lot of pride (and a lot of money) in replacing the candles with lamps.

Father Jeremy does not seem so convinced of their plight, but Pierrot can hardly care. In two days, it would matter little whether they’d gone to his services or not; the season would be over and they would return to their hermetic life for another few years.

 _Please choose a better season next time_ , he tells Helle. Not that Autumn is bad; he adores Autumn and it’s beautiful gold and red, but this time they’d been too close to Christmas. Their seasons tend to last three months, not just one.

The guests leave full and sated. Father Jeremy casts them another suspicious glance but he’s polite enough to bid them good night. Pierrot scowls at his back.

“I never liked priests.” He mutters.

 

*

They danced with many ladies, but mostly they danced with their mother. She was as possessive of them as they were of each other and of her. As toddlers, they would play at her feet as she stitched and as young lads they would sit each at her side, either leaning on her shoulder or resting their weary heads on her lap. Their father found it revolting, but he never could win an argument against his wife.

For their fourteenth year (a very special occasion, said Lady Mireille), they had a masquerade. They each danced with their mother first before they could choose from any of the other girls of their age. Their father thought to secure a wife for each, though he did not mention a word of this to his wife.

Cierra danced the most, but after three waltzes, Cyril would not rouse from his place on the couch. He had the look of someone who’d rather commit murder than stand, and two dances later, Cierra joined him. He rested his head upon Cyril’s shoulder, intending to fall asleep and forget, but there were too many voices around them.

“Do cheer up, boys.” Miss Joanna told them. “You ought to dance some more. There are many ladies-”

“We are tired.” Said Cyril.

“I have turned and twirled with all of them, is it not enough?” said Cierra. “I care not for any of them; none of them are pretty, or have a decent soul.”

As they would not listen to her pleas, she thought their mother would put some sense into them. Lady Mireille cast but one look at her sons and said “Oh, my lovely boys, what bothers you so?”

“We never dance together, Cierra and I.” Cyril whined. “Not like we used to.”

Smiling, she reached out her hands to them and pulled them up to the dance floor. It was an odd sight, mother and sons dancing, and spoken of for weeks after, but her boys had never smiled so blissfully.

 

*

 

In the morning, Pierrot wakes to the scent of earth and roses. He snorts when he finds an errant petal and kisses it before he sends it out through a window. It ought to find its way back to Helle on its own. He spends the morning rearranging his private study and waving away some cobwebs he’d not noticed before. He finds a petal there too, and swallows it without chewing.

He checks in on Sandrine before he goes looking for Helle. She’s too busy ordering her girls around to pay him much thought, so he steals a profiterole and dips it in chocolate when her back is turned to him. One of the other girls does see him; she must be the one that went to tattle-tell to Father Jeremy because she looks frightened. He smiles and bites down on the pastry.

“We’ve got to finish this quickly.” Pierrot tells Helle once he finds him. His brother lounges on the chaise longue Pierrot placed in the ballroom. “I’ve got two hundred and seventy-eight and it’s unsettling.”

Two hundred and seventy-eight isn’t an aesthetically pleasing number. He sees Helle shudder as he says it. There’s just something off, though Pierrot can’t put his finger on it. “Is two hundred and eighty-five better, you think?” Helle asks.

“… _Yes._ ”

Pleased, Pierrot joins Helle on the chaise longue, which is difficult. He ends up mostly on top of Helle and they need to wiggle around a lot before they’re both comfortable. Helle makes Pierrot tell him a story, so Pierrot weaves as many tales as he can think of into one ridiculous tragedy until Helle is shaking uncontrollably under him. He draws little circles within bigger circles on Helle’s chest and lets Helle play with his hair and dig his nose into it.

“You smell of Autumn,” Helle whispers in his hair. “Of rain and freshly fallen leaves.”

Pierrot smiles against Helle’s shoulder. “You smell of Autumn,” He says softly. “Of mist and roses.”

Their kiss starts slow, like the songs Pierrot would always ask Helle to play. They’re in no rush; Pierrot wants to enjoy the taste of Helle’s lips, wants to tease him with his tongue and draw low purrs out of him. Helle’s been holding back for weeks though, so he grows impatient too quickly. Pierrot has to sit on him to keep him still; even so, they end up grinding against each other like starved men.

They spend too quickly, like they used to when they were much, much younger. It’s a pity, but it’s enjoyable nonetheless; the nostalgia is heart-warming. They go upstairs, draw a bath and spend an hour swimming around in its opulence. Pierrot keeps the water warm and it almost starts boiling when he wraps his legs around Helle’s waist and kisses him. They keep the slow pace for much longer this time.

They look like prunes when they dry each other off. They dress simply; both in cream coloured shirts from the Victorian era and camel-coloured fall front trousers. Pierrot laughs at the thought of the affront on their grandmother’s face should she see them.

Sandrine brings them tea when they go to the patio. It’s a beautiful, clouded day, with some chance of rain. They eat their biscuits first but drink their tea faster, and then walk through their garden. Dew covers all of the roses, which look beautiful in the blue haze that covers them.

They lay down on the grass and Helle calls for rose petals to fall around them. The one Pierrot had kissed in the morning is bright red and lands on Helle’s cheek, sitting there until Helle picks it up and swallows it, like Pierrot did with the other one. They curl into each other, fingers twining, and lie for another hour, talking of nothing in particular. Mostly, they reminisce.

The first time they kissed, they had lain in the grass too.

Mother had always smelled warm, and of Autumn.

The first time they had held hands, they had still been in their mother’s womb.

Mother’s eyes had been hazel.

They’d always burnt their tongues on tea, just to have an excuse to kiss.

Eventually, they quiet and stare at each other. Their cheeks are rosy and their lips less swollen from their kisses. Their palms are warm against each other and the dew has sunken into their clothes and their hair. Pierrot wants to stay until the rain soaks them, but it’s getting late and they ought to prepare for their All Saint’s feast.

“You’ve got a visitor.” Sandrine tells them when they’re inside and shaking the dew and grass from their wild curls. Pierrot thinks they ought to hire Jason to act as their door attendant during the day too; Sandrine can’t do two jobs and only get paid for one.

Father Jeremy waits for them in the parlour. Pierrot wants to roll his eyes but that isn’t proper behaviour around guests, and they’re already receiving him in their simplest clothes, which have been ruined by their frolicking.

He eyes them warily, eyes narrowing. They must make quite a pair; their curls loose and framing their faces, their cheeks still tinted pink and their fingers a tangle. Pierrot’s not sure which fingers are his and which belong to Helle. He realises he’s happy, which is a first for this month.

The Father takes a deep breath and says, “I know what you are.”


	2. The Tainted Visage

Empty churches with soulless curses

We found a way to escape the day

Bones - Ms Mr

Even in the womb, they were a riot. Their mother knew exactly what she would bring into the world long before her boys quickened in her belly. Their limbs fluttered restlessly, only calming when she sang them songs. She would often walk around wearing only her chemise, a cause for much consternation among the servants. Her maids would rush her back into her boudoir to dress her properly and comb her hair before the Lord took note, though much of this seemed to go unnoticed by Lady Mireille.

She would wander about the house singing lullabies nobody ever remembered hearing and whispering in a language nobody understood. As her belly grew, so did her disorientation. Her mother-in-law would tut and shake her head at Lady Mireille; “She wouldn’t be the first woman to be driven mad by the child in her womb.”

“Children.” Said Mireille. “I’m carrying twins.”

“Let’s hope not,” said the elder Lady Synnett. “Your husband only has need of one heir.”

Mireille dreamt of twins; boys with hair as red as hers and eyes as green as her husband’s, boys that would play at her feet and sing to her when she pleased, twins that were exactly alike and only had eyes for each other.

“Vanity,” She whispered to herself. “That’s what they are.”

 

*

 

Helle greatly laments that they can’t have the priest. He tells Pierrot as much, not that his brother seems reassured. Father Jeremy looks smug, as if he’s figured out the mystery of life and the cosmos. Perhaps they ought to give him credit where it’s due; none of the priests before him had ever gone to such lengths.

As such, he only says, “Oh, have you figured out the weight of our title? Word has it that it’s quite an outdated fashion.”

The Father scowls at him; it makes the man even more horrid-looking than before. He’s a greying man in his mid-sixties, with a strong jaw and a portly build. “Don’t be coy; _I know what you are_.” His lip quivers and he’s clutching the cross hanging around his neck so hard Helle would be worried for that hand, if he weren’t so offended by the object’s presence. They’ll have to get the divine fumes out somehow, but at least it gives him an excuse to make love to Pierrot; preferably slowly.

 _You need an excuse?_  His brother says, irritated. At the same time, he looks to the priest and drawls, “Pray tell. We’re very interested in your thoughts.” He drags Helle to the chaise, where he sits him down and curls into him. It’s not very comfortable until Helle shifts accordingly and Pierrot’s elbows stop digging a deep pit in his stomach. Father Jeremy looks absolutely repulsed, but Helle is too content to spare his sensitivities much thought.

“Evangeline told me what she saw.” The Father says. _Ah yes,_ Pierrot says, _the little tattle-telling bird_. Helle briefly wonders if they can have _her_ instead, but Pierrot seems to doubt it and he’s the one who’s been spending time with their kitchen staff. Pierrot wants the Father, _but he’s not ours to have, love._

“She told me what you two do, when you think nobody is looking.”

Helle raises an eyebrow. If she had seen any of what they do when truly no one were there to see, she probably would not be able to speak of it, he’s sure. They do some interesting things with each other’s bodies, of which kissing in chairs is but a fraction. He places a kiss on the nape of Pierrot’s neck just to see what Father Jeremy will do.

He turns a delightful shade of purple and crosses himself.

“We’re aware of our sins,” Helle says. “It’s marvellous, truly.”

“It’s more than just your sins.” The Father spits. “You – you’re unholy, demonic creatures! _I know what you are._ There haven’t been new-borns in the Synnett line since 1837. You are evil creations with the faces of angels.”

It’s rather poetic, Helle thinks. He’s never thought of it quite that way, but then it’s difficult to think of Pierrot and he as anything near angelic when what both of them want classifies as sodomy – in olden times, at least. The word _angel_ even burns in his thoughts; he’d rather not try it on his tongue.

“True,” Pierrot says. Father Jeremy must not expect it; he looks surprised. “I suppose we’re demons of a fashion.”

“Mother never did specify what she was.” Helle adds wryly. It was rather in the things she had never said, in the way she had always referred to others as _human_ and _mortals_ , in the way she sometimes looked at her husband with a vague sort of amusement. It was in the way she frowned at the sun, and how she had screamed and burnt when she had gone to church.

The Father stares at them for a long while, which ought to be alarming since he doesn’t appear to breathe for most of it. He’s utterly still, like an image on the telly that’s been frozen. If he’d expected them to deny his words, he’d come to the wrong people. There’s little pride in denial, and if they’re going to embody a sin, they might as well do it correctly.

“What is your goal?” Father Jeremy finally asks.

“A good season.” Pierrot says. His breath is warm against Helle’s neck, and his voice vibrates in his chest. It’s lovely, just like Pierrot is warm and beautiful, wrapped around Helle where he belongs. Sometimes, Helle wants to sink into his brother and disappear.

He kisses him instead, since he figures it will have the same effect.

It’s clearly too much for the poor priest, he looks a bit green when Helle gives him a moment of attention. It’s only a moment because Pierrot draws him back for another kiss.

“I _will_ stop you, whatever it is you’re truly trying to do.”

Pierrot breaks away to give him a sardonically raised brow. “We’ll see you tonight at the feast, Father.”

He sighs contentedly and returns his attention to Helle. They must sit there for a long time, because Sandrine waltzes in to tell them that if they don’t move quickly, they won’t be ready in time.

There’s no time to sit and soak in a bath, but they do feel clean. Dressing each other is out of the question; it’s distracting and they don’t need erections. Helle tries his best not to think of undressing Pierrot, because that’s a rather unfortunate line of thought, but Pierrot picks up on it and _won’t stop_.

Helle thinks of dead, putrefied fish in retaliation.

Pierrot disappears shortly thereafter, but he’s not so far off when Helle leaves the boudoir. He’s spying on Jason again, though when Helle checks, he seems to be counting the guests. Helle knows there ought to be twenty-seven of them and Pierrot tells him that twenty have already arrived.

Helle hums a lullaby he vaguely remembers their mother singing to them. She never taught them the words; _they’re of little import,_ she’d always say, _as long as you get the tune right, you can ask for anything._ He gets it purposefully wrong now just to hear Pierrot correct him. Helle thinks they ought to give their guests a show tonight, there’s nothing wrong with a bewitching tune once in a while. His fingers itch to play.

When the last guests trickle in, Helle takes Pierrot’s hand and leads him into their dining room. It’s been refurbished, which seems to be the cause of much awe among their guests. Helle does have to admit that his brother seems to have a talent for the spectacular. Whereas yesterday the roses crowning the pillars had been red, today they are platinum with golden leaves crowning the pillars, and the walls are cream-coloured. The wooden panes are a rich brown, reminding him of their days spent digging into the earth to sow their roses.

He kisses Pierrot’s hand just for the hell of it, though few seem to take note or seem to care. Father Jeremy is there, sitting precisely halfway between them. Throughout the hors d’ouvres (the taste of the profiterole reminds him of Pierrot’s mouth that very morning) and the main course (today it’s Italian; Linguine con cozze di Nonno), Father Jeremy can’t seem to decide which of the brothers to look at; he watches both every five minutes. Pierrot pretends to be too busy charming the ladies surrounding him to notice, but Helle counts all the daggers Pierrot wants to put into the Father, ending with seventy-one. It’s a beautiful number.

Desert is a delightful Tuscan tart, which Helle eats slowly. After desert, he asks the guest to stay and takes them to the solarium. He has an errant thought of sitting Pierrot on the piano but Pierrot swats his arm before situating himself next to it.

Within the time it takes Helle to take his place at their white grand piano, he catches Father Jeremy chatting with Lucille. She’s dressed rather prettily in a short red dress with a ruffled skirt, and Helle is certain, just by looking at the state of her bust, that she’s wearing a corset. The Father has noticed too; his eyes sometimes dart down.

 _Ah,_ Helle thinks, _lust_. They can’t play with that, even if they have plenty of their own. Pierrot risks a discreet glance and grins like the cat that got the canary. _There’s a sin for every human._

They entertain their guests with songs until the clock chimes twelve. It’s almost like a fairytale; Pierrot’s voice has always been as beautiful as he, and Helle knows they’ve got their guests exactly where they want them. It’ll sleep under their skin, seeping slowly into their bones, sweetening their blood.

The crowd dissipates slowly; some seem confused, as if they’d woken disoriented from a pleasant dream. Jason leads them to the door with a dreamy smile. Father Jeremy is the last to leave. He has Evangeline at his side and holds unto her as if she’s the only tether to the natural world. Helle almost thinks her eyes are glowing, but it must be some trick of the light. She’s dressed conservatively; Helle distantly thinks she ought go to a nunnery.

“By the wisdom and power of our Lord Father,” Father Jeremy says. “Your witchcraft and devilry will not work.”

Helle feels keenly how those words offend all the good witches of the world. He swallows down some wine to make sure he doesn’t say that out loud; he’s in no mood to get into an argument with the perpetually daft.

“God has no power in this house.” He says dismissively. “Now do leave; you stain the carpet.”

Their stink of righteousness lingers like an unpleasant thick wall of smoke. Pierrot’s just as restless about it as Helle feels, so he sits his brother on his lap and kisses it away. Pierrot still smells of roses; they cling to him as if they own him. The petals in their bellies must be long gone now, but they can always repeat the ritual like they repeat their vows: _your body is my body, your soul mine to love, your blood mine to taste and your bones mine to inherit._

 

*

 

The sky was dark and littered with diamonds. Most of the house ought to be asleep, though Cyril knew that their father tended to stay in his private study until either very late or ungodly early hours. He didn’t like the gamble, but he hoped that father was drunk enough to fall into a deep slumber, possibly to never wake. It wasn’t that he wanted the title of Marquis, but he would be relieved if that oppressive presence no longer existed.

Cierra slept peacefully. The wonderful thing about his brother was that he could fall asleep under any circumstance, with a tendency to drag Cyril along in his pretty dreams. Cierra dreamt of gardens and of misty mornings, of autumn and golden blood. The feeling was contagious.

He was reluctant to wake Cierra as his brother dreamt of cool afternoons and soft kisses. Cierra looked at him silently, waiting; his eyelashes quivered but he didn’t go back to sleep.

“Come.” Said Cyril. “Now’s our chance.”

They climbed out of Cierra’s window; the balconies below were good as steps, even if Cyril could only imagine giants using them. They let themselves fall easily; the wind was their friend and carried them safely to the ground. It occurred to Cyril that they could well escape, disappear forever, but the thought of leaving their mother behind was sharp and painful.

They were like ghostly nymphs gliding through the night. The forests greeted them with much fuss, trees rustling their leaves with foreboding.

“The woods doth protest a bit much.” Cierra said drily.

Cyril took his hand and took off; they ran like wild beasts until they could no more, stopping in a clearing where the moon could illuminate their white skin and the grass was soft and magical under their feet.

They fell to the ground, fingers still entwined. When they were done panting, they sat up, folding their legs under them to use as seats. Cyril had the knife carefully hidden in his sleeve; he took even more care to cut their palms. It stung, even more so when they forcefully joined their hands together, chanting “Your body is my body, your soul mine to love…”

They said it seven times, to be sure. They let the silence hang for a long time after, as their blood mingled and dripped from their arms, staining their white clothes and the grass. The leaves stopped rustling, as if the trees accepted that they belonged to the tainted, that they now belonged to the brothers and not to God.

“Kiss me.” Cierra whispered.

 _Finally,_ Cyril heard when he brought their lips together. _Finally,_ he echoed.

They slept on the grass, too tired to stand and unable to release their grip on each other. They tried kissing for as long as their young bodies could stay awake, but then they slept, calm and sated.

There was a ruckus in the mansion when the maids could not find them in their beds. The Lord was gone on a voyage to America, but it was the Lady they feared the most; Lady Mireille and her lioness’ wrath. Miss Joanna broached the subject as they drank their morning tea in the solarium; the curtains were drawn.

“Milady, the boys…”

Mireille seemed to wake from a reverie. “Yes, they’ve slept enough, haven’t they?”

Before Miss Joanna could correct her, the mistress of the house set down her tea, took her prettiest parasol and, much to the bafflement of all, set out towards the forest. At precisely half past ten – and everyone watched the grandfather clock anxiously –

 Lady Mireille returned with her two sleepy, scruffy and wild-haired boys in tow.

“Thrilling, isn’t it?” She said, sighing. “Such horrible weather.”

It was the last Sunday that the sun ever shone in Ellington.

 

*

 

They sleep in the master bedroom, up on the third floor. It’s Helle’s favourite room because it still smells like their mother, and most of her clothes are still in her boudoir. They keep her perfumes and powders too, though they remain unused.

The bed is enormous; they are almost lost in it, but it allows for much maneuvering and _positions_. Helle can’t imagine trying to eat Pierrot out on one of their other beds, not with the way they end up sprawling afterwards.

Today they sleep for the longest while, naked and warm, cuddling under the sheets. Their limbs are loose and they feel lazy; enough so that Helle calls the breakfast Sarah has painstakingly prepared for them up to their room with a single wave of his hand. They take a long time to feed it to each other, piece by piece, alternating between eating and kissing for long minutes.

They sleep again for an hour, only to rouse for a bath. They splash around before bathing each other lovingly. Helle nearly fucks Pierrot right there, but that would defeat the point of their bath.

They lunch late and eat like starved kings, but decide to forego their walk in the gardens; instead, they go to the ballroom, where Helle can admire Pierrot’s hard work. This time, the pillars and the roses are made of ivory, lined with gold, and every other space between the pillars is a mirror. It has an interesting effect, expanding the room to something much bigger than Helle remembers. Visages from Greek mythology adorn the ceiling; Helle spots Narcissus at the centre and laughs. The floor is marble, evenly coloured, though when he squints, he sees vines connecting and curling, waiting to snatch their victims.

“Now we dance.” Pierrot says to him.

Helle takes him by the waist and swings him around until both their heads are spinning. Once they fall down, Helle asks for another story, and Pierrot reads The Gardener and The Manor to him. Images of the splendid garden spread across the ceiling; the rooks, crows and ravens take flight, beautiful flowers sprout and grow, and trees rise to bring forth their fruit. They share a peach when it falls from the ceiling and wait for the clock to chime five times.

They dress as similar as possible; white and gold, with ivory masks. Pierrot himself had sewn the golden roses unto the bow and then unto the right side of the mask. Tiny pearls adorn the tail ends of the bow. Helle deftly weaves the string of remaining pearls into their hair, which they keep mostly loose.

It’s like in olden times, when they were much younger but no more innocent. They greet their guests graciously, transporting them from the foyer to the fantasy of the ballroom. The ladies are dressed in their prettiest gowns and draped with splendid jewellery; the men are dressed more simply, in suits of various shades of grey. Helle spots one very fey light blue suit and chuckles.

He sees two of their maids arm in arm – _Sarah and Lucille_ , Pierrot tells him. Lucille is dressed in a long red dress that hugs her voluptuous figure; once she turns, he sees that the cut at the back is low, the fabric folding and falling at the hollow of her back. Sarah is dressed less provocatively; her dress is white and mermaid-shaped, mostly white and turtle necked. There are hints of red here and there, joined by a red rose in her hair. Together, Lucille and she make a dashing pair.

“I certainly want to dance with them.” He tells Pierrot.

“Get in line.” Pierrot says.

“We can share.”

Pierrot pretends to consider it. “Well, _we_ can.” He finally says. “But what of our good priest?”

He inclines his head in the direction of Father Jeremy, who seems to be completely enraptured by the view of the two women. Mostly, his eyes trail Lucille’s movements and every time he sees her back, he grips the cup of wine harder. At his side, faithfully, is Evangeline who is keenly aware of his situation. She whispers furiously in his ear.

“Pity for him, then.” Says Helle. “We’ll dance with them.”

He dances with both, one at a time. Sarah is pleasant and shy, her eyes always trail back to her boyfriend. Helle teases her about it and hands her over to him once they’re done. “You have a precious one in your hands.” He tells the man.

Lucille is exciting and has much more daring in her bones. She calls them _boys_ with a lilt in her voice, laughs by throwing her head back and pretends to leer at Pierrot. Helle is glad they can’t have her; she’s a great addition to this world. She talks of the places she’s been to and the interesting people she’s met (like the girl who can only sing atop towers under the moonlight). Pierrot thinks they ought to go to Hungary together, to see Lake Hévíz, and walk through the halls of Eszterháza.

“Oh yes, the palace!” says Lucille. “I snuck in at night once, on a full moon. It’s magnificent.”

Sometimes, she slips into a different tongue or a different accent. She devours chocolate, as if it’s the only sustenance on earth that can give her any pleasure, but drinks very little wine.

She parts from them to dance with Sarah. Smiling broadly, Pierrot drags Helle after them. They turn and twist, waltzing on two songs before they retire to the chaise longue in a corner. Some guests have trickled outside to escape the warm air of the ballroom.

Pierrot sits on his lap and bids him to point to all those they can take. Lady Carol Diederich sits in another corner, sipping her wine. She’s surrounded by what they would’ve once called suitors and only gives each five minutes of her attention. Lord Trevon of Abyn is one of her suitors, which would seem unlikely if Helle were not aware of his cock-sureness.

Taleena Patil walks the edges of the room, admiring herself in the mirrors. She smiles amicably at everyone she passes and plucks a rose from one of the vases. Pierrot resents her for that.

Dieter Crane follows Taleena with his eyes. Pierrot gushes over his curly blonde locks, though he makes sure to add that they’re not as pretty as their own red ones, naturally, but Crane is like a modern day Dorian Grey, with a tad bit more vanity. Helle informs him that Taleena and Dieter had had an affair some years past and had split amicably – at least, that’s how the story goes.

Johan Selig has escaped into the cool night, though they catch a glimpse of him some time later, speaking with Lucille. She kisses him on the cheek and winks at the twins before slipping away with Sarah again. Johan sits with Aileen Trenton, _who is not theirs to have,_ and charms her with his smiles and his sweet words. Poor girl.

Duke Leon Dennis of Abbott cuts an imposing figure in all red, and is a magnificent dancer. Now that Helle and Pierrot are no longer actively participating, he takes the stage and shines. Pierrot almost finds it funny.

Miss Alyna Troy shines just as brightly, almost in competition with Lady Carol. She’s got suitors of her own continuously asking for a dance, but she refuses each. She wants to dance with the guests of highest honour only, and yet the twins have not looked her way once. She is suitably put out.

“What to do with all these egos in one room?” Pierrot sighs.

“Fatten them up.” Helle says, kissing his neck. “Eat them up.”

Pierrot finally asks Alyna for a dance. He’s always been better at entertaining guests; much as Helle tries, he cannot touch others for long. Pierrot seems to bear it with an unholy calm, but he becomes unrepentantly clingy afterwards.

Helle approaches Taleena and takes her upstairs, to the balcony of the west wing. She ducks her head down in an almost kittenish way; it makes Helle want to snap her neck. Dieter watches them go with an almost predatory look on his face, so Helle blows him a kiss.

“He’s truly horrible, milord.” Taleena giggles. Helle rolls his eyes and slits her throat in one movement.

She dies slowly, eyes wide. He takes a chair and sits by her side until her choking quiets. While she dies, he carves vines and roses into her flesh until she disappears. He cleans the knife with his handkerchief, slips it back up his sleeve and checks his clothes for any errant bloodstains.

Dieter Crane rounds the corner just as Helle leaves the balcony. He doesn’t find that all too surprising, but he’d been hoping for a bit more time.

“Where is she?” Dieter demands. He crowds into Helle’s personal space, almost pushing him back into the balcony. “What have you done with her?”

In retrospect, Helle thinks he ought’ve had more patience, but the bloodlust is thick in his blood. He grabs Dieter by the throat, says, “Why don’t you go meet her?” and swings him off the balcony. Dieter lands with a crunch. Wondering how many times he will have to roll his eyes tonight, Helle jumps down, landing only a foot away from the corpse.

Carving the vines is a bit more work with Crane because less of his skin is exposed, but soon he too disappears. Helle feels a bit weary, though not because of any exertion. This has been easy and fun, but he is eager to see Pierrot. He enters the ballroom through the back door and spots his brother waltzing with Aileen Trenton. Taleena is still tracing the edges of the room, admiring her reflection and Dieter is still watching her movements.

Pierrot disappears with Johan Selig some time later. Helle doesn’t ask what they’re chatting about, he’s too busy trying to lure Lord Trevon away from Lady Carol, which, as it turns out, does not take much – Lord Trevon likes pretty faces and is particularly fond of redheads. Helle shudders at the thought of seducing him and possibly having to kiss him, but luckily, after an hour or so of flirting, it doesn’t come to that. Trevon is a very chatty man, and stops to admire himself in every mirror they pass, and likes to regale people with stories of his many exploits, so Helle is glad when he finally has the opportunity to snap the man’s neck. He carves Lord Trevon’s skin extra deep for good measure.

The real Duke Leon Dennis has already disappeared when Helle returns, though his replica appears not much later and takes to dancing almost immediately. Helle settles in a corner and waits for Pierrot. It’s a relief to see him, and Pierrot nearly falls into his arms and curls up as if he intends to stay there for the remainder of the night. They’re both filled to the brim with lust and pleasure, but there’s nothing to be done with it now. Not just yet.

“There’s still Lady Carol.” Helle says softly. Pierrot shivers, his breath hot against Helle’s skin.

“This hunt is so lovely.” He whispers. “They lie there so prettily in a pool of their own blood, with broken bones and empty souls.”

Helle knows it’s a terrible idea to kiss him now, but the need for it is overwhelming. Pierrot is right here, perfect in every conceivable way, demanding to be kissed, loved, and worshipped. Once the season is over, they’ll have all their time to themselves again, to adore each other like gods.

“Together?” Helle asks when they break apart. They’re full of tension, and if they don’t stop now they’ll never get her.

_Together._

It’s hard to move from such a comfortable position and it doesn’t help that they’ve both got erections. Staying pressed against each other won’t help, so they let each other go and try to think of vile things.

Even, ugly numbers.

Rotting flesh swarming with flies.

Sun-filled days, especially Sundays.

The heavy stench of church.

They continue until they can stand properly and walk to Lady Carol. Some of her suitors have moved on, but the replica of Lord Trevon staunchly remains by her side. Helle catches a glimpse of his cadaver in the mirror behind Lady Carol and waves it away; it won’t do if the guests can see him.

“May we have this dance, milady?” They ask.

“Both of you?” She says, placing her hand on her chest. Her fine voice and act of delicate flower grates at Helle’s nerves. “It would be the greatest honour.”

It feels like sacrilege, to dance with her the same way they would’ve danced with their mother. She’s an ill-fitted substitute, even with her vibrant red hair. Pierrot’s steadfast presence calms him, but just as eager as he was to start the season, as eager is he to see it end. His skin feels too tight and there’s something ill-timed to the hunt. A month is not enough time to enjoy it, or plan correctly, but they’d both been so restless that it had felt like the right time.

They take her away to the drawing room, flirting and laughing, and pour her a glass of wine. Her cheeks are warm and aflame and Helle’s hands are cold. She holds it to her face as lovingly as she would hold a lover; Helle is glad he stands behind her so she cannot see his grimace. The look that passes on Pierrot’s face is poisonous.

Nonetheless, he does what he has to, kneeling before her like an innocent kitten, and taking of her shoes. They look deadly, and a noise of near ecstasy escapes her when he slips them off. It turns into a bloodcurdling scream when Pierrot breaks her toe.

It quickly becomes tiring, so Helle cuts as deep a gash as he can across her throat. She chokes too slowly, but once she’s dead he feels much lighter. Pierrot rips her clothes to pieces, throwing her to the floor in a mad frenzy, and together they set out to carve into her pale skin.

 _“_ _Lure them in with a feast,_ Pierrot sing-songs, “ _and make a feast of their flesh.”_

Helle’s hands pause. His eyes trail the contours of Pierrot’s face, of his graceful neck, his shoulders, his arms, his fingers…he looks down at his own hands and finds the same shapes, draped in the same delicious warm blood. Pierrot looks up, and smiling sweetly, hauls him in for a tender kiss.

There are noises coming from the hallway, and Father Jeremy rushes in with Evangeline on his heels. Helle wishes for them to _burn_ in the fieriest pits or possibly just rot in places unpleasant and best left unnamed, more so because they’re not allowed to harm either.

“What have you done to this poor, innocent woman?”

Helle snorts, looking down on the mutilated corpse between them. “She was hardly poor, I assure you. Nobility rarely is.”

“As for innocent,” Pierrot chimes in cheerfully. “Well, if she were anywhere near innocent, we wouldn’t have been able to have our way with her.”

As expected, it does nothing to wipe to horrified look on the Father’s face, though it’s not like they were trying. Evangeline looks oddly pleased to see them. She pushes the Father aside and swings her robe open to reveal her sword.

“With the words of Heaven and our royal Father,” She says, _and oh, of course,_ Helle thinks belatedly, _of course she would be an angel_. “I command thee, oh evil spirit, leave!”

The light is blinding, but as far as exorcisms go, it is rather weak. The trouble is, naturally, that there are no spirits to exercise; Pierrot and he were born into these bodies, brought into this world as mortals, or at least as close to it as possible. The light stings, like the sun once had in distant memories.

“How dare you!” Pierrot screeches. “How dare you invoke those words in our house!”

She looks down on him, eyes aglow. “Begone, son of anarchy.” She says, voice heavy. Her wings are shadows against the wall and on Father Jeremy’s pale face. When she stabs him in the stomach, Helle screams in rage.

Pierrot falls, as if sleeping.

His only consolation is that, when he throws Evangeline – or whatever her name is – against the wall with a wave of his hand, holding her there by the invisible grasp of his hand, something seems to go wrong for her too. She twists and screams, the sword falling to the ground with a loud clanging.

“No,” She shouts. “No, Father, please, I have-”

She burns; through her eyes first, but her wings are soon aflame and it extends to her dress, her arms, her legs. Then she’s gone and not even ashes remain; but Helle is still angry, still reeling, because Pierrot is on his lap, bleeding precious blood.

Helle sets his sights on Father Jeremy, who takes a step back.

“You are not more powerful than God.” The Father tries, voice trembling.

“No,” Helle snarls. “But I am much angrier.”

He’s more in pain than angry; the wounds in Pierrot’s stomach are too deep and closing too slowly. The stain is spreading and his blood mixes with that of Lady Carol. _Sacrilege,_ Helle thinks, _she taints him_.

He wants to stand, to take the Father’s heart right out of his chest and _eat it_. Even as he thinks this, he sees the barrier; this man’s sin is lust, not pride nor vanity, and therefore he cannot lay a finger on him, lest he wants to end up like that rogue angel. His mind struggles to accept these rules; his brother lies dying and soon his own life will mean nothing. He might as well break these rules while he can, while his empty body still draws breath.

Except there’s the sound of thunder cracking distantly, and blood blooms from the priest’s chest. It spreads quickly, staining his black attire, and the man sags, eyes wide with shock.

Lucille stands in the archway, pointing a small silver gun at her victim.

“I hope you don’t mind me crashing your party.” She says as she tucks her gun away in her purse. Pausing, she adds, “You throw marvellous feasts, by the way.”

“Thank you.” There’s so much relief in his voice it seems to take even her aback.

Sighing, Lucille crouches over Father Jeremy’s body. “He’s been evading me for months, this one. So righteous and devout – and with that Evangeline hanging about him – it’s revolting.” She pokes his cheeks and puckers his lips. “Sarah will be happy he won’t be telling her the error of her ways at every turn.”

She kisses the Father on the lips. He petrifies almost instantly, falling apart to ashes and dust a moment later. With one sharp intake of breath, she opens her mouth and takes in his ashes. She shudders, mouth wide open, and there’s the heavy smell of sex hanging about in the air. Once she calms, she takes out a mirror and retouches the red of her lips.

“Will your brother be alright?”

“He lives.” Pierrot no longer bleeds, now that Helle can give him his full attention, which is a sure sign of his continued existence. She nods and pecks him on the mouth. “You’re my favourites by far.” She tells him before she leaves.

Helle sits and waits for an entire hour. He’s afraid that if he moves, his brother will vanish like all the other bodies do, even if he’s not truly dead. It shouldn’t be so easy to harm something as beautiful as they, and yet he’s seen his brother near the doors of Death.

He cries too, because it hurts.

 

*

 

Cierra always asked for stories. Their mother smiled and indulged him as she tucked them into bed. That night, they slept in Cierra’s room because Miss Joanna had misplaced things in Cyril’s room, which was distressing for everyone involved. Mother still had that light tremor in her hand, as if her muscles were aching fore retribution.

Cierra asked, sweetly, for a story about a prince.

“Oh, but I’ve read from all of the books we have.” Lady Mireille lamented. “We ought to buy you new books.”

She left them for a moment but returned quickly, holding a magazine in her hand. Cyril had never imagined they could be very interesting; there weren’t any pictures, only black ink on white paper. Father liked to read them a lot, and Miss Joanna would read from magazines, but mother said those were of a different kind. This one, her husband had brought from America on his latest travel.

Smiling, she opened the magazine and looked for something suitable. She found The Masque of The Red Death.

“The Red Death,” it began, “had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal -- the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains…”

They were still awake once she finished, curled possessively around each other. Cierra is biting on his tongue and Mireille absently thought she’d miss that tick once he grew out of it.

“Time to sleep, my darlings.” She said softly. She only blew out three of the candles, the ones closest to the twins.  They watched her solemnly, fighting to stay awake until she’s kissed them goodnight.

“Mama?” Cyril said quietly.

“Yes, sweetling?”

“I bet The Red Death was beautiful.”

She laughed. “I’m sure he was, Hellequin.”

 

*

 

Pierrot is catatonic for three long days. Helle makes sure the remaining guests find their way out safely and steals their memories from them. Lucille lingers and tells him to rest on the second day because “You look like you’ve seen God himself and not survived it.” Despite his weariness, he manages to ask her if she’ll visit. She says she’ll try, if only because they’re spectacular hosts and because she fancies seeing Sarah again.

“Marry her.” He jokes. She shakes her head.

She makes him swear to take good care of himself

He lies next to his brother, holding his hand. Pierrot is no longer feverish, but he doesn’t open his eyes and that’s enough to make Helle weep. He hopes and prays that Evangeline burns for the rest of eternity, that God smites her soul and breaks it into little pieces.

The manor is closed, and it has never felt so good to be utterly isolated from the world. Still, the three days feel as lonely as they are sleepless, and Helle grows bitter as the hours creep by at a petty pace, mocking him as the seconds tick by. But then, on the third night, Pierrot opens his eyes at last. Helle feels like he regains his purpose, finds his will again in his brother’s eyes.

He’s groggy and dehydrated, but _he lives_. His eyes are still green and his hair is still red, his skin is smooth and soft, and there’s no scarring on his stomach. They are still identical in every perfect way. Helle pulls him closer, gently, and lays tender kisses on his forehead. Pierrot is warm, maybe a tad too warm, but he breathes. He breathes deeply and still smells of autumn, of rain, of freshly fallen leaves. His laugh is a bit scratchy.

Helle draws him a bath and washes his hair. He carries him out into the garden so that they can lie in the grass and soak in the dew. They drink the sweet honey the bees have left for them and eat grapes that fall from the ballroom’s ceiling. Pierrot does not recover in one day, but his cheeks regain colour and his smiles last longer, become brighter.

“You look so tired, love.” He whispers once they lie in their bed.

“I’ll recover.” He says.

They sleep for a week. Their dreams are sweeter – they dream of the past, when they were young and unburdened. There was a time when their mother’s laughter accompanied theirs, a time when their father seemed a faraway shadow. When dreams of the past cease, they move to their paradise where they sit amongst the roses and sink their teeth in succulent tarts. Chocolate grows from vines and melts on their tongues.

They wake less disoriented than they’d been before. They make love too eagerly; once again, they spill before they can truly enjoy it, but they have time. There will be other times; there is eternity.

They plan their trip to Hungary. They ought to go in Spring, when the flowers begin to bloom but the air maintains some of its cold cruelty. Even so, they stumble upon the question of what to do for Winter; there will be lovely snow, yes, but there will also be Christmas. Considering their recent brush with all things holy, Helle wants to be as far from it as possible.

“India,” Helle proposes as Pierrot caresses his hair. His ear presses against Pierrot’s chest and their hearts beat in tandem. It’s a beautiful song. “Or perhaps somewhere in northern Asia.”

“What say you to staying right here?” Pierrot counters. “Here in our house, alone and together.”

Helle has never felt so at peace. They spend less and less time in the confines of their manor, they lay in the grass and under the grey sky. Their roses have sagged, some have even wilted during the period of inattention, but they still smell sweet. Pierrot gives each one a kiss, and as they cuddle on the grass, they watch their roses bloom again.

They stay until the moon is out from behind the clouds. Helle clears the sky so they can pretend to count the stars, but eventually they both shiver and have to relent. Pierrot sits at the vanity and combs his curls back. Helle watches him, but then disappears for a few moments to fetch his gifts. He balances them carefully in his arms, not that it really matters if they break; he can easily fix them.

Pierrot smiles and picks each one carefully from Helle’s arms, examining their details. Johan Selig looks the sweetest, with his little blond curls and blue eyes. He hesitates when the one that’s left is Lady Carol, his hand spasms, but he reaches for her and smashes her porcelain face on the vanity. Helle squeezes his hand.

The shards reattach themselves slowly. Pierrot’s breaths are shallow and his eyes are unfocused; Helle has to lead him to the bed and whisper soothing words to him. Eventually, Pierrot returns, smiling shakily.

“Thank you.”                                                                                                                               

Their breathing falls into harmony.

They sleep.

 

 


End file.
